


You Put Me In A Spot

by Little_Cello



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sam!Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Cello/pseuds/Little_Cello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is injured during a chase, and Gene has to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Put Me In A Spot

**Author's Note:**

> Stressy times for me mean whumpy times for Sam. The usual, coming right up. Unbeta'd.

One of these days, Gene would keep Sam locked up in his office at the station – or better yet, in the cells – just to teach him a lesson about rushing off ahead of the team. Not only was it dangerous, but it also meant that Tyler had a much better chance of nicking the crims ahead of everyone else, thus snatching up all the praise and also getting too far ahead on their own personal score table. Even though he claimed he was above this sort of “childish competition”, Gene suspected that in fact, Tyler cared about his nicking score very much, competitive little bastard that he was. It became especially apparent in moments like this, when Sam dashed ahead of them all, running after Riley like a dog bitten by a whole army of fleas. Fitting, considering he was Gene's Deputy Dawg, but he still didn't appreciate the fact that Tyler made him huff and puff after him. Especially when they were running through the maze of Manchester's back alleys.

 

Over his own laboured breathing, Gene could hear little else. Just before he turned another corner, he thought he heard a sound, but then he was distracted by the sight of a dead end, and then a door on the side, standing ajar. Only one way to go then!

 

Tyler was leaning over a table, his head bowed, back facing the entrance. The moment Gene rushed into the room, he raised his hand and pointed to an open door to the left of him.

 

“This way. 'e ran... this way.”

 

Had Gene been a bit calmer, not adrenaline-flooded from the chase, he would have questioned Sam's behaviour, the odd stance, the slight quaver in his voice. However, at that moment, his entire being was focused solely on arresting the little scrote who had escaped the law one time too many. He followed Sam's direction with a shout of “Keep up, Tyler!” over his shoulder, dashing through the door. And sure enough, he spotted a glimpse of Riley's washed-out jacket swiping round the corner.

 

“You're nicked, sunshine!” Gene hollered, feeling the familiar thrill of the chase running through him as he picked up speed.

 

Luckily for Gene, Riley wasn't the speediest fellow, and so the hunt was short-lived. Gene threw himself at the man, both of them crashing down to the ground. A short grapple ensued, much to Gene's fierce delight. It had been too long since any criminal had put up a fight, as Gene tended to lament to Sam on long, whisky-filled evenings. Although, blast it all, Riley turned out to be a limp fish. He received a good kick in the gut for that.

 

By the time Ray and plod arrived – having taken a wrong turn before, apparently – Gene had the lad cuffed and had just lighted a celebratory cigarette. Only when Riley was picked up, looking more dazed than he had any right to, did Gene notice that Sam still hadn't caught up with them. Gene frowned. That was more than odd.

 

Giving Riley one last shove, he made his way back to the little shed, throwing open the door with a grand gesture. “Oi Tyler, never knew ye had a thing for gardening!” Sam still stood where he had been, staring intently at the wall in front of his nose.

 

Unperturbed, Gene continued, walking towards his deputy, “ 'course, makes perfect sense, what with yer likin' of...”

 

Here, Gene stopped, both verbally and physically. Having come closer to Sam, he finally saw what was keeping Sam pinned in place. Literally.

 

A knife. Driven through the back of Sam's right hand, into the table beneath.

 

“... Bloody 'ell.” The cigarette nearly fell from Gene's lips.

 

Sam closed his eyes, taking a deep, if shaky breath, and only then did Gene notice the film of cold sweat on his forehead, the pallor of his face, the tension in his entire body, the laboured quality of his breathing.

 

“I'd appreciate it if –“ Sam started, barely moving his lips as he spoke, obviously trying his hardest to control himself. But Gene had already crossed the distance between them, inspecting the injury further. “How'd 'e get you?”

 

Sam however, having opened his eyes again, completely ignored Gene's question, instead turning even paler than he already was. “Don't touch it –!”

 

“Untwist yer knickers, Margery, I won't! Christ, how stupid do you think I am?!”

 

Gene let his gaze roam – they needed some sort of rag, a piece of cloth... “Tyler, talk to me.”

 

Sam gave a small snort. “Guv...”

 

“Or d'you want me to tell the lads you tripped like the dozy mare you are and managed to impale yerself?”

 

Gene ignored the disbelieving look Sam shot him and instead turned to a shelf to his side.

 

“... 'e struggled, Grabbed the... I would've had him, I nearly managed to talk sense into him, but then 'e heard the sirens, and you catchin' up, and... and panicked...”

 

Sam exhaled, and Gene searched the shelves a bit faster, until, finally – !

 

“... 'e grabbed the... _knife_...” Gene heard Sam swallow as he turned back. “... I got a hold of his hand, went to twist it, but he lashed out... and then....”

 

Here, Sam closed his eyes again, swallowing once more. Gene thought he had now turned a shade of green.

 

“Blimey, good police work, that,” Gene muttered, to distract Sam rather than actually scold him, but it seemed to work, seeing as Sam frowned and cracked open his eyes to glance at Gene.

 

“Of course, you would've done way... what are you doing?”

 

Gene stepped close to the table, holding up a fairly clean-looking rag. “Gonna pull _that_ out, and wrap _this_ around your flipper.”

 

Sam looked at the piece of cloth rather skeptically. “What about... infections?”

 

“Infections my arse, I 'ad to use a piece of me own jacket in National Service plenty times, didn't kill me.”

 

Sam still didn't seem convinced, but frankly, Gene didn't care. He curled his fingers around the knife's handle – blimey, but that thing looked vicious – and looked at his deputy. “Alright?”

 

Sam remained silent for a moment, then nodded stiffly. Actually, it looked more like a “no” rather than a “yes”, but Gene knew it had to be done. He waited another moment, giving Sam time to brace himself, then pulled with an abrupt motion –

 

And it was out. Sam gave a choked noise – most like a scream he'd been trying to suppress – and his knees buckled, but Gene already moved in to bandage the now slightly twitching and alarmingly heavily bleeding hand, fixing the cloth as tightly as he could.

 

“Christ...!” Sam was breathing unevenly, keeping himself steady with his good hand propped on the table in front of him, eyes wide and face even whiter than before.

 

“Alright Sammy-boy, let's get you to hospital,” Gene said, adapting the matter-of-fact-voice he used to keep people distracted. He put his hand around Sam's good arm, pulling gently to pry Sam away and out of the shed.

 

“Gene, I...” Sam began, sounding very strained, but then he swallowed again and exhaled. “... right, alright. Hospital.”

 

Gene nodded. “Good man.”

 

However – as soon as Sam took a step, it became evident that he had just been putting on a brave face. His legs gave away again, making him stumble, and Gene very nearly failed to catch him. And even now, Sam was practically hanging in his arms, weak and limp.

 

“Oi!”

 

“... sorry, I'm sorry, I...” Sam muttered, head against Gene's chest, breathing hard, trying to get a grip on himself, but obviously failing. That was when Gene started to worry. Had he underestimated the injury?

 

“Did he get you anywhere else?”

 

“... no... Guv, I, I'm sorry, I need to... need to.......”

 

“Oi Tyler, don't you faint on me, don't you ruddy dare.”

 

“... tryin'....”

 

Gene grabbed Sam firmly, one arm snaking around his torso to give him proper support.

 

“Alright Dorothy, let's do this step by step. Eh? 's not that hard, even Chris does it every day.”

 

Sam remained silent, leaning heavily against Gene.

 

“... oi. Sam.”

 

No answer.

 

“Sam, don't mess with me. Tryin' to to take the mickey, are ye? Well, it's not workin' –“

 

“Shut. Up.”

 

Gene stopped, finally reaching down to tilt Sam's chin up slightly. Christ, but the lad was pale. Suddenly Gene wondered how long he'd been standing there for, with that knife in his hand. Must've seemed like hours. Sam's eyes were closed now, sweat trickling down his jawline. They needed to do something, and quick.

 

“... right. Since you're being a right girl, I'll 'ave Ray call an ambulance. Your own fault, that. Can't 'ave you bleedin' and fainting all over the Cortina. Don't come runnin' to me if 'e calls you out on that later.”

 

The fact that Sam didn't reply, and also the fact that the cloth around his hand was turning red and redder with every passing second, gave Gene all the more reason to yell for Carling to radio in for the ambulance. That done, he slowly navigated Sam backwards, until he was able to sit his DI down on a crate of sorts, both Gene's hands resting heavily on his shoulders.

 

“Sam, talk to me.”

 

Silence.

 

“That's an order.”

 

“.... 'm feelin' sick.”

 

“Well you're not throwin' up on my coat, just so we're clear.”

 

Sam gave a very weak snort, keeping his eyes shut and his head bowed, his injured hand hanging limply between his legs.

 

“Listen to me, Sam.” Gene put all the conviction he had into his voice. “You'll be fine. 's just a flesh wound. Nurses will stitch you up an' you'll be back to yer own pain-in-the-arse-self in no time. Can get Cartwright to do all that paperwork for ye while you can't use your pretty little 'and. Don't sweat it.”

 

Again, Sam remained silent.

 

“Did 'e really not get you anywhere else?”

 

This time Sam shook his head, pulling a face. “... isn't this... enough already...?!”

 

Gene swallowed, feeling a sudden pang of guilt, and immediately dismissing it. If anything, it was Sam's fault for not being careful enough and letting that scrote overpower him. “Just makin' sure is all,” he muttered, frowning. When he received no reply, he leaned in to inspect Sam's face once more. It was ashen by now, but his eyes had opened, all glassy and unfocused.

 

“.... there's a hole in my hand,” Sam finally muttered, sounding mildly surprised.

 

“Oh, so you _are_ a detective, Sammy-boy!” Gene retorted, but the knot of worry in his stomach seemed to grow tighter at those words. That, and the way the lad's breathing was starting to speed up... He was going into shock, and no mistake.

 

“Sam, Sammy. Listen 'ere. Ambulance is on its way, they'll patch you up faster than you can say 'proper sodding procedure'. Alright? Sam, are you listening? I want you to bloody listen!” Gene gripped Sam's shoulders harder, giving the man a small shake. “Sam!”

 

Sam blinked, several times, but thankfully making the effort to try and focus on Gene.

 

“Yes, that's good, keep lookin' at me. I know you'd rather 'ave Flash Knickers cooing all over you, but that can't be 'elped now, you'll 'ave to make do with me. Is that understood?”

 

Sam blinked again, then nodded slowly, once. But that wasn't enough for Gene.

 

“Speak up, Tyler. I want you to tell me that you understood what I said.”

 

Sam pulled a face, reluctantly opening his mouth. “... yes, Guv.”

 

Gene patted his shoulder gently. “Good man.”

 

**

 

In the end, the ambulance arrived fast enough. Gene was never really worried anyway. His DI wouldn't just bleed out from a small cut like that. Well, to be fair, it wasn't just a small cut, but he'd be damned if he'd let Sam know what he really thought about it. Big or small, it was stitched up now, and Tyler was doing what he did best – nagging.

 

“Can't even bloody feel anythin'. Paperwork be damned, how am I goin' to cook?”

 

“There's a marvellous thing called take-away.”

 

“I don't have the habit of swimming in money, Guv.”

 

Gene glanced at his DI, sitting in the Cortina's passenger seat with the most sullen expression he'd ever seen on anyone.

 

“You're fretting over summat else.”

 

“Oh yeah? How would _you_ know?”

 

“Both blokes, aren't we?”

 

“... yes?” Gene could very nearly feel Sam's quizzical, irritated gaze boring into him. “What're you tryin' to say?”

 

“Nothin'. Just that ye'll 'ave to switch 'ands for yer bit of quality time in the evenings. Don't see why you're makin' such a fuss over that, by the way, 's not the end of the world.”

 

“For.... oh for God's sake.” Sam leaned back in his seat and turned his head away, seething. Gene rolled his eyes.

 

“Untwist yer knickers, Gladys. 'm sure Cartwright would gladly give you a –”

 

“Will you shut up!” Sam was probably going to add some more to this, but all Gene got was a strangled groan. He looked over to Sam sharply – his eyes were closed now, his left hand curled around his right forearm.

 

“Oi, careful with that.”

 

“You're telling me,” Sam muttered through clenched teeth. Gene thought it might be best not to talk for a little while. Tyler looked about ready to heave up, and he wouldn't have that in his beloved motor.

 

A minute of silence passed before Sam opened his eyes. Soon as he did, he started nagging again.

 

“Hang on, where are we going? This isn't the way to my flat.”

 

“Blimey Tyler, and there I thought I was goin' to 'ave to confiscate that badge and bang you up for theft of police property.”

 

“Stop messing about, Guv. Where are we goin'?”

 

“Home.”

 

“But this isn't –“

 

“Like you ever call that shit hole of a flat 'home'! No, I'm not takin' you back there so that you can go into hibernation and do yer 'ead in over how unfair the world is. You're comin' with me.”

 

It took Sam a while to answer.

 

“.... you mean to your 'ouse?”

 

“The candidate 'as just won a yellow squeaky rubber duck.”

 

Again, silence. Gene was starting to enjoy this.

 

“..... why?”

 

“ 'cos we've run out of flower-patterned ones.”

 

“No, I... Gene, you know what I mean.”

 

They took a corner, into Gene's street.

 

“Because the missus 'appens to 'ave cooked up one of those brilliant Shepherd's Pies of hers, and she's put me on a diet. Can't let all that smashin' food go to waste, can we.”

 

When Gene parked the Cortina, Sam still hadn't replied, so he finally twisted in his seat and properly looked at his deputy, taking in his unreadable expression with a slight pang of worry and a much bigger sense of satisfaction. “Got a problem with that?”

 

“.... no,” Sam finally said, gingerly shaking his head. “... er, thank you, Guv. For the... invitation.”

 

“If you don't eat up, I'll make you rework the filing system of the Collator's once your 'and's back on duty. And don't you even think about leavin' the 'ouse before tomorrow morning. I'll pop round yours and get your things. You stay 'ere and entertain my wife with your outlandish recipes an' you can both gush over knitting patterns an' all that.”

 

Finally, Sam showed real surprise. “I...”

 

“That is an order, DI Tyler. Understood?”

 

Sam blinked, and then, at last and to Gene's relief, a little smile showed up on his face.

 

“Yes, Guv.”


End file.
